


Italian Food and Invitations

by tielan



Series: Everybody Needs Good Neighbours [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Meet the Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6843172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For the prompt: “<i>you’re my neighbor and your grandparents are coming to visit and you’ve apparently been feeding them a lie about how you’re dating me to get them off your case so could i please be your pretend date for like two days you will pay me in concert tickets and mac and cheese</i>” AU.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Italian Food and Invitations

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: “ _you’re my neighbor and your grandparents are coming to visit and you’ve apparently been feeding them a lie about how you’re dating me to get them off your case so could i please be your pretend date for like two days you will pay me in concert tickets and mac and cheese_ ” AU.

Maria is almost ready when the doorbell rings.

“Damn,” she mutters, wishing he’d been just a _little_ bit late, so she could maybe change her dress... No time. As it is, she still needs to put her jewellery on and get her shoes on, put her bag together and...

Oh, dear God, she’s left answering the door too long, hasn’t she? Going out into the upstairs corridor, she leans over and calls, “Coming!”

Maria pads down the stairs in her stocking feet, trying to think of what she might have missed – oh, the address to the restaurant so they can check program Google maps to get there—

_Gran is going to be livid if we’re late._

She pulls open the front door. “Sorry, I’m still getting ready. I—”

The bouquet is unexpected. So is the suit.

The suit is actually more of a shock than the flowers. She pretty much would expect Rogers to be a corsage kind of guy, but the suit looks really good on a guy she’s only ever seen in jeans, or, once, in slacks and a polo, pushing the preppy look.

“Hi.” The expression is a killer: one part smacked over the head, one part appreciative, one part anxious-shy. Honestly, what is wrong with the women (and/or men) in his life that none of them have snapped him up yet? “My mom always taught me to bring flowers when taking a lady out.”

“So, shouldn’t they be fake flowers?” Maria winces as her brain catches up with her mouth. “Sorry. That was so rude; I can’t believe I said that. Thank you – they’re...they’re lovely. Come in, I’m still getting ready.”

He steps in and hands her the bouquet. “I, ah, wasn’t sure quite how formal it was going to be.”

Maria takes a moment to look him up and down – grey slacks and matching jacket, loafers, a pressed blue shirt, a fresh shave, and the delicate tinge of cologne. “No, I think you hit the bullseye.” Reminded of her duties and responsibilities, she starts for the kitchen and asks, “Would you like a drink?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he assures her as he follows her into the neat, open kitchen space. “You just keep getting ready. Do you have the address of the restaurant?”

Clearly, GMTA. “No. But it’s called _Intaglio_ and it’s on the south side – Newton Street, I think. I hope you like Italian.” Maria takes the bouquet out of the plastic sleeve and sticks the stem ends in the sink. “They’re lovely, but I’ll have to hunt up a vase for them later...”

She hopes he doesn’t take offence at her casual treatment of his gift; God, she’d forgotten how bad dating was – and this isn’t even the real thing.

“Go,” he says, smiling. “Do what you need to do. Although...”

Maria pauses, frowning when he doesn’t continue. “What?”

His gaze flicks up at her, blue eyes beneath ridiculously long lashes. “You look amazing. Like, drop-dead stunning.”

“Oh.” It takes Maria a moment to get her tongue working; she’s pretty sure her cheeks are on fire, although at least he looks a little ruddy himself so it’s not _just_ her. “Um. Thanks.”

She doesn’t scurry out of the room – Maria Hill does not _scurry_ – but she feels more than a little hot as she goes back upstairs to get her jewellery.

 _This was such a bad idea,_ she tells herself as she picks out the jewellery she got for her twenty-first birthday from her grandparents – a gold necklace and bracelet that her grandfather’s grandmother once owned. Add a pair of gold hoops and a bangle, and rings...

Shoes. Closed toe heels with the strappy ankles? Yes. Purse, handbag, phone, keys, makeup...

“Maria?”

She makes herself leave the sanctuary of her bedroom and go downstairs, where Rogers – _Steve, call him Steve, he’s supposed to be your boyfriend_ – is just looking up from his phone. “How long will it take us to get there?”

“According to Google traffic? Nearly three quarters of an hour.” His gaze slides down the length of her body, an appreciation so warm she can almost feel his hands on her. “And then we have to find parking.”

Maria grins as she pulls out a coat and starts to put it on. Then pauses when he steps around behind her and his hands come over her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you into your coat.”

“Did your mom teach you that, too?”

“Of course.” The grin is easy, fond. “Along with opening doors, pulling out chairs, and kissing her when I leave her at her door.”

She eyes him, but lets him help her into the warm woollen coat. Then she shoulders her bag, sets the alarm, and points him out the front door. “Don’t push your luck, Rogers.”

* * *

They drive to the restaurant in his car; it’s smaller and easier to find parking, and he doesn’t mind city traffic. Plus, Maria admits, it’s kind of nice to be chauffeured around; even if it’s only in a Prius.

More complicated is the sorting out of their ‘romantic history’ as they’re going to present it to her grandparents.

“Stick with the truth,” Maria advises. “Or as close to it as possible. We met when you moved in.”

“We met when I licked your mailbox last winter.”

She wonders if that sounds dirty just to her, but continues on. “And we started dating in June.”

“Okay. Are we sleeping together yet?”

He asks the question matter-of-fact; it’s not his fault that Maria’s brain takes it and runs with it. Yes, she’s fantasised what that body would be like in bed – long, slow bouts of lovemaking that leave her exhausted but satisfied; but that’s all it is – fantasy.

And he’s expecting an answer. “We’re taking it slowly,” she tells him, hoping her cheeks aren’t betraying her too much in the dark of the car. “So, no, we’re not sleeping together.”

“So...I might get lucky tonight?”

When she looks over at him, he’s grinning at her, like this is a lark. And for him, sure, it is. Maria, on the other hand, perpetrated this idiocy when she told her grandmother she was dating the neighbour in an attempt to stave off Gran’s determination to find her ‘a nice boy’. After that, it just snowballed.

If she thinks about it, the situation could be a lot worse. Steve is nice and obliging, didn’t laugh at her when she asked if he would be her pretend boyfriend for dinner with her grandparents, and he cleans up very well. And he comes cheap – a couple of ballgames (she has a season pass and can bring a guest) and her best recipe for mac-and-cheese (which he’s seen her eating on the back porch in the last of the fall weather and claims should be illegal because it smells so good).

As pretend boyfriends go, she could do much worse. Hell, as _real_ boyfriends go, she could do much worse.

 _Jump him now,_ says Nat-in-her-head, always present, always suggesting the action Maria is least likely to take. _Be late. It won't kill you to be late in the name of getting laid._

Nat has never met Maria's gran.

Still, this is an act - a pretense. There's no reason Maria can't stretch the limits just a little tonight. So she gives him her best look – lazy lashes and a slow smile. Just because she doesn’t like to play games the way Nat does, doesn’t mean she _can’t_. “Maybe you will,” she tells him archly and watches him drag his startled gaze from the road, “If you play your cards right.”

* * *

“You really couldn’t do better than a Catholic Irish boy?”

Maria glares at her grandmother in the mirror of the ladies’ room. “Gran, nobody cares about that anymore. Besides, you married an Italian Papist, remember?”

“Your grandfather was never a Papist.” But her grandmother smiles a little – the twinkling smile, the one that bodes both good and bad things. “At least he looks at you right. You should take him to bed, teach him a few things.”

“Oh, God, we are _not_ having this conversation here.”

“Why not?” Her grandmother has never been a prude; just a little prejudiced. “There’s even a condom machine over there.”

Maria turns, frowning. “No, they’re menstrual products, Gran.”

“Well, just be safe. They didn’t invent condoms and the pill so you could just go around having sex without protection!”

“Not having this conversation,” Maria repeats and avoids further embarrassment by running her hands under the dryer. Then her brain snags on something her grandmother said earlier.

She waits until they’re on their way out of the restrooms. “He looks at me right?”

“Like he could eat you up with a spoon.” At the table, Steve glances up and smiles, and her grandmother elbows her in the side. “Like _that_.”

 _Fuck him blind,_ sings Nat-in-her-head.

Maria’s heart is pounding as Steve stands up to pull her chair out and sit her back in, his hand trailing along the line of her shoulders as he goes back to his place. He’s been doing this all night – taking her coat at the door, resting his hand on her waist as they waited for the hostess to seat them, pressing up against her back to murmur questions in her ear as they walked to their table, shifting his knee so it just brushes hers under the tablecloth.

It’s...distracting. Very sensuous, but also distracting. And an act.

The problem is that her body doesn’t make the distinction between pretense and reality; even if her brain knows what’s going on. And this whole playacting thing is starting to confuse her brain, too.

“So,” says her grandfather genially. “Dessert? The cannoli here is as good as my grandma used to make.”

Maria laughs. “I thought you said nothing compared to your grandma’s cannoli, Gramps.”

“Well, nothing did, did it? Until we tried it here.” He kisses his fingertips. “It’s all from scratch, of course. But you must try it.” He looks at Steve. “I grew up in the Italian quarter in New York, Steve, just after World War II – good times. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

“Except where they apparently do?” Steve offers, smiling. “Okay. I’m game.”

Gramps waves the waiter over and orders cannoli, coffee, and God only knows what else. Meanwhile, her grandmother is quizzing Steve over his restaurant blog. “You haven’t been here yet? I thought it was quite popular among the food crowd.”

“Not yet. I haven’t really done much with it in the last year. Too busy with the house and garden – and Maria.” The glance he slants her way is slightly mischievous and reminds her of something else that she’s occasionally wondered about but never remembered to ask.

“Did you ever work out who hacked your blog?”

“Who hacked...? Oh, that really harsh review that got posted?” His mouth twists. “Bucky did it for a prank. We had words about that. I sent an apology to the restauranteur and promised to visit the next time I was in town and give her a decent review.”

Maria blinks. Nat hadn’t said anything about that the last time they’d spoken. Of course, Nat had been mostly complaining of her love life and Maria had only been listening with half an ear, mostly because she’d been trying to work at the time.

“Who’s Bucky?” Gramps asks.

“My best bud. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“Sometimes the childhood friendships last,” Gran says. “Maria, did you know Antoine will be back in the country for a couple of weeks in January? Esther was looking forward to seeing him again – she was so proud, she nearly burst just telling me.”

“He sent me an email.” she assures her grandparents. “I promised to come down and catch up with him. Work should be pretty quiet around then.”

Steve is looking at her with a question in his eyes, frowning slightly, and Maria shrugs at him. She can’t remember if she’s mentioned Trip in their conversations, but they’ve been friends all their lives, and he’s nothing Steve has to worry about—

—because, Maria abruptly remembers, this is all make-believe.

They’re not dating, he doesn’t care about her friendship with Trip, and she’s making a mountain out of what is most definitely a molehill, because Steve is playing a part. Which leaves her with a slightly sinking feeling in her stomach, like she swallowed something not entirely pleasant.

“Maybe you could bring Steve with you,” Gran suggests with a wicked smile in Steve’s direction. “If you can take leave that is.”

“I’ll see what I can manage.” Steve reaches over and puts his hand on Maria’s. The warmth of his hand does terrible things to her insides. “I’d love to see where Maria grew up – she’s got such fond memories of it.”

Maria snorts rudely. “I’m not half as maudlin about it as you are about your childhood.”

“Well,” he admits as his thumb rubs over the back of her hand in a sensuous circle. “It was a pretty good childhood.”

Dessert arrives at that moment, allowing Maria to retrieve her hand before she completely loses her ability to think straight. Not that it helps much, since Steve promptly presses his knee against hers under the table and answers her gran’s questions about his family and his upbringing.

The cannoli _is_ good, although never having tasted her great-great-grandmother’s version, Maria has no comparison. But her grandfather is in the throes of reminiscing, and she’s pleased to hear his stories about his family from the first half of last century.

Steve seems happy enough to listen and ask questions, behaving like the perfect boyfriend – interested, attentive, intimate. He feeds her some of his gelato and savours her tiramisu before prouncing it pretty good. And when she declares herself too full to finish what’s left, he’s isn’t behindhand about swapping plates.

How the man manages to eat as much as he does and still look like an escapee from a male revue, she doesn’t know.

How he manages to make her hot with nothing more than a grin, she doen’t know either.

It’s past ten when they finally extract themselves from the restaurant.

Maria shivers as she steps out onto the street – and it has little to do with the brisk breeze that’s come with nightfall. Steve has slipped his arm around her waist, tucking himself against her side and back as they wait for her grandparents to emerge.

“Well,” says her grandfather, coming around to kiss Maria on the cheek. “Glad you could make time for us while we’re in town.”

“Don’t forget to call us when you come up in January – or whenever you make it up to see Antoine.” her grandmother adds as her grandfather shakes hands with Steve and exchanges quiet words to the effect that Steve had better treat her right – as though Maria couldn’t ensure that herself.

They head off down the street in the opposite direction, and Maria watches them go, then shivers again as Steve slides an arm around her waist and starts walking them towards the car.

“You don’t need to—”

“They might look around,” he murmurs against her hair. “It’s just until we get to the car.”

So Maria doesn’t pull away because he’s right, her grandparents _might_ look around, never mind that they’re probably in the next street by now. It feels so nice to lean into a big, warm, male body, even if she wants to stretch out against him, even if it’s just an act that will last right up until they reach the car—

Steve swings her around as they reach the Prius, backing her up against the rear passenger door. His body crowds hers, and her breath catches as he brings them face to face, his mouth only inches away.

“What—?”

“We’re about to drive home.” His eyes are steady and his voice is even. “And when we get to my house, I’m going to invite you in. You can absolutely say no if you want, but I’m hoping you won’t.”

Maria exhales the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “You’re going to invite me in?”

“Yes.”

“For sex?”

“Yes.”

She can’t think, so she blurts, “Whatever happened to a kiss at the door?”

“Well,” Steve says, his gaze dropping to her mouth as he smiles, not quite ruefully, “my mom also always told me it never hurt to push my luck a little.”

Then he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss is tentative, testing her boundaries.

For a moment, she freezes, not knowing what to do.

_What do you need,_ says Nat-in-her-head, _an instruction booklet with diagrams?_

Maria kisses him back.


End file.
